Sunday, May 22, 2016

Now You're Just Splitting Hairs

Join me down memory lane and take a look at my impulsive hair choices.

This is pretty much my natural hair color. As hairdressers like to call it: dark ash blonde or dishwater blonde. Yep, a color so gorgeous, it's reminiscent of dirty water.


In college I tried many colors: brown, red, platinum, black... I tanned on a daily basis because I thought my skin needed a good crisping. I tanned so much, in fact, that one fateful tan erupted blisters on my chest. I cried myself to sleep that night--not because I had bleeding pustules on my bosom, but because I couldn't tan the next day. I was a tan mad man.


As you see, I was a ripe color of orange, my skin darker than my hair. Trying to weave logic into the illogical, I decided I should dye my hair darker to better complement. Past Katie made choices that confuse Present Katie.


I thought the dark brown was too harsh, so I tried a golden/reddish brown a few times. Yes, I’m still tanning like an idiot.


In 2005, Kelly Clarkson-inspired highlights are in--so make 'em thick 'n' chunky. You know, I paid $80 for this comb-through color..


I never cared for American Idol, so I tried to return to a more natural blonde, which ultimately was too brassy for my taste. And as you can see, I'm a lady of exquisite taste (not pictured: Keystone Light).


Too brassy--why not go platinum? I'm starting to chill the tanning, but I also started shopping the Express Men's section. At least I'm consistent with making strange choices.


Senioritis kicked in and I stopped caring what I looked like both in hair and wardrobe. Hair is seemingly in a constant bun state.


Over the next couple years, my hair grows long and healthy. I can pull off semi-elaborate styles and take photo booth selfies like a vain hermit. See, when my hair gets long and healthy, my saboteur spirit is triggered and I do something reeeaaaaaaalll dumb…


...like using red box dye. I decided not dying the underside was a great idea. I’m not sure why I...I just don't know.

Here's the thing about red hair color: if you put it over previously bleached hair, THAT RED WILL CLING. The color was fading into a Florida orange and I went to this nutty hairdresser to fix it. The first time he tried to raise the color to no avail. I had to wait a few weeks for my hair to cool down, then he decided to give me the chunky Kelly Clarkson look from 2005. I paid for this to happen in 2012.

A couple months later, I went to my usual hairdresser and she saved me from the mid-2000s, but not from deciding I should bake my skin again.


I didn’t dye it for two years, but around May 2014 someone said I looked like nerdy Taylor Swift. Based on a stranger's statement, I decided to dye my hair and become the terrible Taylor Swift doppelgänger no one wanted. Going from dark ash blonde to light ash blonde isn't the craziest lift and it looked good…at first.


Sadly, it went Justin Timberlake's *NSYNC era, ramen blonde REAL QUICK. By the way, this is Tokyo Oktoberfest in May. Yep.


I toned it every couple months with grey toner and I looked like a fabulous long-haired grandma.


Several toners later, my hair was crispier than a bucket of KFC, and I chopped my hair off in the bathroom. Over 15 inches in the toilet (which I still feel bad about flushing).


I made the chop last summer--the shortest hair style in about 10 years. It's...hair. It's not something anyone should be attached to. I wish I had the chiseled looks of Natalie Portman or Dwayne Johnson to pull off a short do. I suppose as confident as I (think I) am, I still hide some insecurity behind these hair curtains.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Better Never Than Late

I chatted with Richard a few times online until we decided to meet: 11:30 a.m. on Sunday at Starbucks. Simple enough. I opted to take the bus for the one mile trek as swamp ass as an ice breaker seemed like a paradox. 

As I walked to the bus stop at 11:10, I received a text from Richard: "I'm here." Oh...k. So he's fantastically early and I just started my journey--as expected since our date was in 20 minutes. I texted saying I'm on my way and will see him at 11:30.

The bus arrived, I took a seat, and pulled out my 3DS for some pre-gaming. Reorganizing my inventory would be the most fun I'd have the next hour.

About two blocks away from Starbucks at 11:31, I received another text: "Should we reschedule?" Ohhhhh...k. Now, did I miss something? I checked the original message that had 11:30 as the meeting time, and noted he didn't suggest he's the Czar of Time. At that point, I should have texted back: "Sorry I'm a minute late--I don't want to start our impossibly timely romance on a sour note. Take care sweet, punctual prince." Instead--since I hadn't witnessed enough crazy at this point--I said I was two blocks away and should be there in a couple minutes. No response from him.

I arrived within the great hallowed halls of Starbucks at 11:34 and looked for the early bird--nowhere to be found. I called him, "Hey where are you?"

"Oh, I wasn't sure when you'd show up so I went for a walk."

"Oh...k. I'm here now. Are you gonna come back?"

"Yea, I'll be there in a few minutes."

So, in the fury that was waiting three minutes, Richard--who will henceforth be called Strict Dick--had to pace around the city instead of waiting mere moments for a stranger to arrive. Maybe I'm an incredibly patient person, or MAYBE I'm equipped with so many electronics (and inner demons) that I play the waiting game without issue.

I took a seat and prepared for what would surely be a rigid ride.

Strict Dick showed up and I extended my hand to shake as I do with all dates; if he's Strict Dick, I'm Hands-off Hermin. We each ordered a drink: SD getting a venti tea (really, the drink of peace for the boy of urgency?), and myself the usual $4 cup of apple cider bullshit. Yes, I'm the one customer creating demand for that product.

We sat down and chatted. He asked what happened with my delay, and I declared absolutely nothing since a few minutes of tardiness seemed reasonable in a busy city setting. Moving past my despicable date infraction, we chatted our way through the routine introductory dialogue.

Halfway through my apple piss, SD suggests we go for a walk. I'm taken aback because I thought he got a few laps in before I arrived...15 MINUTES AGO. I calmly finished my beverage and mentioned how restless he is (yea, not like his leg was shaking as if a million spiders were braiding his leg hairs while we chatted...). 

We started to walk around glorious River North in Chicago. Convenient enough, my friend lived about 10 blocks east of this Starbucks. On a secret, tight schedule, I led the charge to my escape. Was this guy Newton's Law of Motion reincarnate? I'll never know, but when we reached my friend's apartment, I decided to rest.

"Well, Strict Dick, it's been a real scheduled program, but I think I'll drop off here at my friend's place and check on the time."

"Oh, are you sure?"

"Ahh yes. So this is the part of the date where I say crazy things to ensure you don't contact me again."

"Ok."

"I was four minutes late for our date because I was plucking out my pubic hairs one by one."

"Ok. Take care."

And I never heard from again. Ultimately, Richard was obscured by the mists of time and became legend in this post.

Editor's note: Although written today, this date took place in 2013. This tardy recap would surely infuriate him...